


It Sounds Better in French

by slashmyheartandhopetoporn



Category: The Blacklist (TV)
Genre: Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-26
Updated: 2015-08-26
Packaged: 2018-04-17 08:11:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,283
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4659183
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/slashmyheartandhopetoporn/pseuds/slashmyheartandhopetoporn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Red’s inside, seated on Donald’s couch, when Donald gets home. There’s soup on the stove, and Donald can smell it before he’s even fully in the door—thyme and rosemary and garlic wafting their way into his nose so thoroughly it’s all he can do to keep from closing his eyes right on the threshold of his apartment and sighing contentedly.</p><p>"Jesus, that smells good," he says instead. He closes the door behind him and then leans his back against it. “This your way of apologizing?”</p>
            </blockquote>





	It Sounds Better in French

**Author's Note:**

> If you've read "The Beasts That Howled" you can consider this in the same universe.

Red’s inside, seated on Donald’s couch, when Donald gets home. There’s soup on the stove, and Donald can smell it before he’s even fully in the door—thyme and rosemary and garlic wafting their way into his nose so thoroughly it’s all he can do to keep from closing his eyes right on the threshold of his apartment and sighing contentedly.

“Jesus, that smells good,” he says instead. He closes the door behind him and then leans his back against it. “This your way of apologizing?”

Red watches Donald impassively and then offers a small nod.

Donald keeps his back to the door for another moment, though he knows drawing out his acceptance of Red’s apology won’t make the older man squirm, as much as he wish it would. But then he gets another whiff of the soup and can’t hardly stand it anymore. He joins Red on the couch, manhandling him until one of Red’s arms is draped over the back of Donald’s neck and shoulders so he can lean his head onto Red’s chest, one of his arms resting over Red’s stomach. “You’re forgiven,” he mutters against Red’s shirt.

“Aren’t I always?” Red says, and Donald can tell by the tone that he’s smiling slightly.

“Not where Liz is concerned,” Donald says, craning his neck to look up at Red. His expression has soured. “Oh, cheer up, Ray,” Donald says, patting Red’s belly. “At least your boy-toy’s ready to take your dick up his ass again.”

That gets a snort out of Red. “That _is_ good news,” he says. “I was starting to feel a little dry.”

“Well, you’ve always known the way back into my good graces is through a good meal.”

“A little known fact about everyone’s dear Agent Ressler.”

“No, but really,” says Donald, voice going serious. “Be honest with me: did you make the soup, did Dembe make the soup, or did Dembe get sent out to pick the soup up?”

“I’m appalled at your lack of faith in my culinary abilities,” Red retorts.

“So Dembe made the soup,” Donald concludes.

“Dembe made the soup,” Red agrees. “But he got to take a good portion of it with him before he left. It’s freezing out there, after all.”

“Yeah, I know. I spent most of the day trekking through it looking for Michaelson, and I have literally nothing to show for it but a chafed nose.”

“I could get you a hanky,” Red offers. “Monogrammed and everything.”

“Aren’t you sweet.”

“I do try.”

The quiet that descends is comfortable, and if Donald weren’t so hungry he’d let himself fall asleep right there on Red’s chest. He’d been so cold all day, stuck out in the snow chasing down dead leads, finally heading home after hours of trudging throughout the city following tips that never panned out, and it felt so good to finally start to thaw out, pressed up against Red’s solid warmth.

“Donny, would you like to have dinner with me?” Red asks softly, and Donald stirs.

“Yeah, sure. Why not?” he answers, and he’s aiming for playful but so damn tired the words come out resigned.

Red, however, seems to understand what Donald means. He extricates himself from Donald’s sloth-like embrace and says, “Why don’t you sit here and let me go get us some soup?”

 Donald lets himself be gently re-positioned on the couch. “I love your apologies,” he says earnestly.

“Because they tend to involve me bending over backwards to get back on your good side?”

“Oh, Raymond, you’re absolutely right. I don’t appreciate _nearly_ enough the effort required to walk ten feet into the kitchen and ladle soup into bowls.” He clutches his hands to his chest for dramatic emphasis, and Red picks up a throw pillow from the armchair and lobs it at Donald’s face. He catches it deftly and shoves it behind his head. “Thanks, babe.”

Dinner is some kind of vegetable soup, parsnips and potatoes and carrots in a tomato-beef broth. It is, without a doubt, divine.

“Can Dembe make all of our meals?” Donald asks with his mouth full of root vegetable.

“I think that’d be a gross misuse of his time and ability,” Red says after he swallows his bite.

“Are you suggesting the world benefits more from him keeping you alive than supplying the rest of us with delicious soup? Because I’m not sure I agree with you.”

“Donny, you wound me.”

Donald grins widely before diving back into his soup, and Red rolls his eyes. He picks up the remote off the coffee table and turns on the TV, settling on the classics channel.

“Hey, I think I’ve seen this one before,” Donald says with some surprise. Generally the only old movies he watches are the ones Red wants to show him.

Red puts down the remote. “It’s a great film.” On screen Gene Kelly tap dances around Leslie Caron on the banks of the Seine.

“My mom used to love this movie,” Donald says, putting his empty bowl on the coffee table and adjusting himself better into the couch. The memories of Mom putting _An American in Paris_ on every now and then while Donald made himself busy with building model cars or cleaning his BB gun were coming back to him now.

“I’ve always been more partial to it than _Singing in the Rain_ , if I’m being quite honest,” Red replies.

Donald nudges Red’s shoulder and grins. “Is that, like, some classic movie shit talk right there?”

“No, I would have to say something more along the lines of, ‘ _Marjorie Morningstar_ is Gene Kelly’s best film!’ for that. A brazen lie, Donald. Just terribly brazen.”

Red finishes his soup and takes both their bowls into the kitchen to soak in the sink, and when he returns to the living room it’s with two beers in hand. He settles into the couch, cozying up to Donald, to watch the rest of the movie.

“I think I’m going to have ‘S’wonderful’ in my head for the rest of the week,” Donald says sleepily as the credits roll.

Red mutes the television and strokes his hand along the back of Donald’s neck. “I’ve always been partial to ‘Our Love is Here to Stay’,” he says.

“That’s because you’re a sap,” Donald replies, leaning into Red’s touch.

“Are you complaining?”

“No, Raymond, I’m not.”

 "Je suis desole, Donald. Really."

A small smile tugs at the corners of Donald's mouth. "Je te pardonne."

“Truly? This won't be something you hold onto and break out during any other argument or disagreement we may have?”

Donald sighs. “Red, you were forgiven before I walked in through the door. No, I don’t like being thrown under the bus at work because you don’t feel comfortable enough sharing your intel with anyone but Liz, and yeah, I think this ridiculous charade we’re playing about our relationship around everyone at the Post Office is a total joke considering half the team has already figured out we’re sleeping together. But, I mean, I get it, you know? You’ve got an image to uphold, and you think this somehow protects me from undue harm, and Keen’s relationship with you right now is fragile and you want her to feel on solid ground, I _get it_. So yeah, Raymond. You’re forgiven.” Then Donald lightly slaps Red’s thigh and gets up from the couch. “You ready to come to bed and fuck me or what?”

Red stands as well and wraps his arms loosely around Donald’s neck. “I certainly don’t need to be asked twice,” he says, leaning forward for a kiss.

“Thank god,” Donald says with exaggerated relief. “I’ve been gagging for you all fucking week.”

**Author's Note:**

> Want to write more for these two, but for now all I got is fluff.


End file.
